


Atonement

by tristesses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Breathplay, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Redemption is good,” he tells Severus, face alight. “I know, I know how it <i>tastes</i>, like the sweetest of wine. Severus. Atone for your sins for the Dark Lord. For <i>me </i>. Now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 11/30/2008.

“ _Say_ it.”

Severus is still, facedown on the cold stone. Some corner of his mind has fenced itself off from the screaming riot of pain his thoughts have become; coldly, it takes account of his injuries. Snapped fingers, brittle like twigs under his torturer’s dragonskin boots, the joints crushed. Cracked skull, but not too serious, nose broken as well. Muscles pulled and torn from his writhings under the Cruciatus curse, throat raw and raspy from his screams. The pain throbs through his body; he knows better than to fight it. Let it come. He will survive.

“Ooh, say it, you bastard,” the voice above him pants. “Say it, say it, _say it!_ ”

A brutal kick to his ribs and a high squeal of glee, a woman’s voice this time. Bone splinters, and he rolls into the fetal position with a groan. His tormentor’s face swings into view, pale and hollow-eyed and hectic, a manic smile plastered on his face. Behind him is Bellatrix, hanging off her husband’s arm, leering like a gargoyle, her color high.

Barty drops to his knees beside Severus, brings his face close to the other man, tongue flicking, moistening his lips, a nervous habit from years ago. Severus wants to lash out and bite it off, watch blood spatter across the stone like spilled wine, hear Barty’s shriek of pain and loss as he reels back. He can’t move; he feels as if he’ll break.

“Say it,” Barty whispers, lips brushing Severus’ ear. “Admit it, or you will scream from pain and fear.”

Severus sneers, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of his mouth. He has lost some teeth. His throat burns with the effort of speaking.

“You know nothing of pain or fear, Crouch.”

Barty snatches his greasy hair and smacks his head against the stone. Severus does not give him the pleasure of hearing a cry.

“You sniveling afterbirth,” Barty hisses, “do not _dare_ call me by that name – ”

Does his skull shatter? Severus wishes it would, a reprieve from this night. Barty digs a finger into the corner of his eye, squeezing it against the socket, pressing it to bursting. The pain is extraordinary, rockets igniting in his temples, werewolves clawing off his face. He screams, and Barty lessens the pressure. Severus can hear the younger man panting, a twinge of a moan on his exhalations that’s nearly sexual.

“Say it, Snape,” taunts Bellatrix, “or reveal yourself as the Mudblood lover you really are!”

“I am not,” he snarls, chokes, and spits foamy blood across Barty’s shoes. The man drags a finger through the red froth and licks it clean.

“Then prove it,” hisses a cold, serpentine voice from across the room. “Redeem yourself, Severus. You have always been so faithful.”

“My Lord,” gasps Severus. Barty twines his hands around Snape’s throat, pressing his Adam’s apple almost tenderly.

“Redemption is good,” he tells Severus, face alight. “I know, I know how it _tastes_ , like the sweetest of wine. Severus. Atone for your sins – ”

“Lily Evans,” Severus chokes. “Lily Evans is a Mudblood whore, less than an animal, a creature deserving of death – ”

“More,” whispers Barty, a dark, primal shape blocking out the dim light.

“A bitch writhing in her own filth, a – ” he gags on the words, “ – a rotten cunt, a beast with stagnant sludge for blood – ” anything to stop the pain, “ – a creature deserving of death – ”

“You already said that,” murmurs Barty.

“She and all of her kind must be destroyed,” Severus wheezes, and Barty’s fingers on his throat slacken. “To give way for the Dark Lord’s children, the pure of blood, the righteous.” He has never hated himself more than this moment, spewing words and lies to save his own sorry skin.

The hovering presence of Barty Crouch steps away; Severus can see his boots leaving treads of blood and dirt on the stone. His ribs scream, he can barely see or even function, but he drags himself along the floor by his broken fingers until he reaches the Dark Lord’s dais. Cold scaly hands touch his cheek, tilt his head up to the ceiling. A thin strand of blood trails from his lips, blood is smeared along his mouth and shattered nose.

“Are you a Death Eater?” inquires the Dark Lord.

“Yes, I am,” Snape whispers, and right now he means it completely. The Dark Lord releases his head, and it lolls to the side; Severus cannot support it, nor does he care to.

“Take him and fix him,” the Dark Lord says, addressing Barty, who stands tense and waiting. “Bring him back when you are finished.” He steps away from Severus, the hem of his dark robe swirling hypnotically.

Barty loops an arm around Severus’ torso; the pain is almost too great to notice. Then a wand, pressed to his temple, Barty’s voice whispering “ _Stupefy_ ”, then blessed blackness.

 ****

. . .

He is wakened by the bittersweet scent of a potion, one of his own creation. The all-consuming fire in his body has been replaced by a dull ache and the sudden twinges of bones healing. There is utter silence in the room, aside from his own heartbeat in his ears. No, he’s wrong; there are light, shallow breaths directly across from him, barely noticeable. He opens his eyes.

Barty is perched perfectly still in a rickety chair, wand held lazily between two fingers, head tilted against the wall, eyes shut. Severus can see the pulse throbbing in the other man’s neck, delicate and steady. The urge to tear his throat open surges inside Severus, a sudden violent impulse, but he quells it (this is not the time) and attempts to sit up. He gasps at the swell of pain and clutches his ribs.

“I haven’t got to those yet,” says Barty calmly. Severus glances over; he sits and observes the older man’s struggles with a slightly amused expression.

“It would be more practical to heal everything at once,” Severus grunts, and maneuvers himself back down.

“Perhaps,” Barty quips, “but less enjoyable.” He stands, walks over to Severus, looms over him like a watchdog, then prods his chest. Severus expels a woof of air. “It’s more entertaining when you squirm.”

“Just give me the potion,” Severus orders. “It’s ready.”

“You trust me?” Barty ladles the shimmering liquid into a flask, hands it to Severus. “I’m very nearly flattered.”

Severus does not deign this with a response; he downs the potion – it is strangely sweet, but he barely registers this, too muddled by his beating – and shuts his eyes, gritting his teeth as his bones realign, blood materializes in his system, bruises fade. Barty watches him, tongue flickering. It’s rather unnerving.

“Why her?” Barty asks abruptly.

Severus just looks at him, unresponsive.

“Why Lily Evans,” he elaborates. “What possible appeal could that Mudblood have for you?”

“None,” says Severus, and makes to stand.

“I’ll admit, she’s very lovely,” muses Barty, sluicing the potion in the half-empty flask. “Hair like blood. But not worth much else than a two-Galleon fuck in the back of Knockturn Alley, much less hours of torture given by your _friends_ – ”

Severus lunges for him, but Barty dances to the side, evading his grasp. Severus grabs for his dirty blonde hair, snatches a clump, and yanks him to the ground; Barty is taller than he, but leaner, more frail, and Severus twists his wrist brutally until the other man yelps and his wand clatters to the ground. He knees Barty in the gut and shoves him to the floor, slashing his face with the wand as he tumbles. That terrible, violent rage is back, but tempered with something stranger, a tightness in his stomach and groin, the unspeakable desire to rip Barty open and make him scream and writhe in both pain and pleasure –

The potion was too sweet.

“Ashwinder eggs,” he accuses, pinning Barty’s wrists to the ground with his foot.

“Frozen,” Barty says, and screeches breathily when Severus savagely steps on his wrist. The screech tapers into laughter, hysterical giggles. “Really, _logically_ , you can’t be angry. It was you who told me how to do it. You taught me everything I know – ”

“Shut up,” Severus hisses, and falls to his knees above the other man, straddling his narrow hips, wrapping a hand around his slender throat, increasing the pressure until Barty gasps, then – lips together, both chapped and sore, the clashing of teeth and the biting of tongues and whose blood is in their mouths? Severus does not know, nor does he care, he is focused only on Barty, the minute tremors of the body underneath his, the gasping as Barty fights for breath, the exhilaration sweeping through his veins and the need to fight and fuck – where is the wand? Not in his hand, his hands are busy with Barty’s body, nails drawing welts down the other man’s slender chest, scraping over his nipple. Blood decorates their lips like gruesome makeup, and neither knows whose it is; neither cares. Barty knots a hand in Severus’ stringy hair and pulls him closer, kissing him hungrily, slipping the other hand under Severus’ robes and tearing at the buttons, baring his body, grasping his erection and stroking, smearing precome along the shaft, making Severus hiss out little moans, disgustingly needy moans.

Barty twists and writhes out from under Severus and kneels before him, takes the other man into his mouth; Severus freezes, groans and shivers as Barty’s clever tongue works around the tip, lightly nipping at the skin, oh his hands soaked with spit caressing and stroking and one finger, _inside,_ invasive and dirty and delicious, Severus arches his hips unintentionally and gasps for _more_. Barty complies, and can Severus hear him laughing? This is what the little bastard wants, isn’t it, _control_ , to dominate him even as he plays the slave – Severus will not give him the satisfaction, despite how good it feels. His hands are wound in Barty’s hair and he jerks the blonde away viciously, tossing him to the side. He is throbbing and rigid and he _needs_ , and he hisses to Barty through clenched teeth, “Undress.”

He scrambles to do so, overeager, and Severus smirks, grabs the slim man while his trousers are bunched around his knees and hauls him closer.

“Wait – ” gasps Barty, his lips swollen, his eyes hectic. His hands scrabble for the wand. “Merlin, can’t you just _wait_ – ”

He barely has time to mutter his charm before Severus thrusts inside, absolutely ruthless, focused on no pleasure but his own, his hands on Barty’s hips leaving bruises, nails digging crescents of blood into the younger man’s skin. Barty gives a thready, girlish squeal, and starts to laugh wildly, his giggles punctuated by grunts as Severus drives into him.

Severus is lost inside his own lusts, conscious of nothing but sensation, the tight slickness of Barty around him, cold air nipping his skin and rough stone cutting his knees, those little yowls the other man makes – yes, this is glory, this is passion and fervor and violence, the potion thrums through his bloodstream and he is vaguely aware of Barty working himself frantically with one hand, and here the aphrodisiac explodes into his brain, fries his neurons, he shudders and every muscle tenses and he bites Barty’s shoulder to muffle his cries – Barty’s hysteria reaches a climax and he screams with no attempt to hold back, he screams and cackles and dissolves into laughter, and that is the last thing Severus hears before

blackout.

  
**. . .**   


Now he stands and guards the man tied to a chair in the teacher’s office. Barty has not aged, except for deep lines around his eyes, and the manic glint in his eye has developed into full-blown insanity. He is dirty and unshaven, nearly emaciated, his hair so unclean it appears dark, his grin unchanged.

His tongue flickers out of his mouth, moistens his lips. A muscle twitches in his cheek; when Severus presses his wand against the errant muscle, he snaps at it with his teeth. Severus jerks the wand away, and Barty wheezes a little giggle. And speaks. It is unexpected.

“Are you a Death Eater?” he inquires, eyes glowing with unnatural fervor.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Ooh, yes, it does,” Barty snaps. “Stop evading and admit it.”

Severus remains silent for a moment, then inclines his head sharply.

“Liar,” whispers Barty. “I can tell when you lie.”

“I am not lying.”

“Who is Lily Evans to you?”

“The sow that birthed the bane of my existence.” Words like this still make his throat tight; he loathes saying them, even if it makes Barty smirk and nod. Severus wonders if he believes him.

“It scarred.”

“What?”

Barty tilts his head to the side, scrutinizing Severus, his expression more serious than the Potions Master could remember seeing it. “The bite on my back. It’s still there. A nice memento of better times.”

“You could call them that.” Indeed, there’s a gravitas to Barty that had never been there before; years in Azkaban must have given him this foundation of solemnity, nearly hidden under the layers of cruelty and mania.

“You wouldn’t?” No reply. “You prefer this stilted existence – attempting to shove knowledge into the skulls of apathetic teenagers, always knowing your efforts are in vain and that there’s not an intelligent one in the lot – to _before?_ ” He gives a crooked, dark smile. “The violence, the blood, the taste of fear in the air. You miss it, Severus. I can see it in your eyes.”

Severus is saved having to answer by the arrival of the Aurors, sauntering into the room in their scarlet robes, wands drawn and casting restraining spells before they all clear the doorway. Severus steps aside. He does not look at Barty as he exits, but mere feet from the door, Barty calls mockingly,

“A goodbye kiss, for old time’s sake, Severus!”

He freezes for a moment, hears the deadly silence in the room – what must the Aurors be thinking? but no, he will dismiss that from his mind, it’s not important – and were he a sentimental man, he would turn and look at Barty, perhaps blow a kiss if he were particularly fey. But he is none of these things, and never will be, so instead Severus crosses his arms, setting his winglike robes aflutter, and stalks out of the room.


End file.
